


More than the Stars and the Sea

by Swangooseduck



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers, Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: AU, OC, Original Character - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-07
Updated: 2019-04-23
Packaged: 2019-11-13 08:24:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18028232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Swangooseduck/pseuds/Swangooseduck
Summary: When Andrea Wells looses her father, she's left with his research and his wish for her to take it to The Prime and his people. Unable to trust the government, and coming under fire from well armed, well informed special ops of some kind, Andrea has no  allies. But she made a promise. And by god, she intends to keep it. Transformers G1 AU.





	1. Corpse of Home

Andrea stood silently, looking over the corpse that used to be her grandmother’s home. If she squinted, she could just imagine it the way she remembered as a child. Tall and sturdy, if a bit sloppily painted from the many hands of her and her young cousins sloshing the pewter blue paint along the lower half of the house. The shutters were a bright and cheery off-white that her father spent weekends wiping down after mowing the grass in the summer, while she clambered monkey like between the three large oak trees that framed the back of the house.

  
Blinking destroyed the illusion. It barely had anything resembling walls anymore. The roof was gone, and those clean off white shutters Andrea had found so happy lay scattered along the ground, smoke stained and splintered. Not even those beautiful trees had been spared from the fire’s devastation. Their trunks bore scorch marks, the uppermost branches that had been her childhood playplace were gone.

  
Her beloved childhood home was a shamble. And there wasn’t any reason for it to be. At least, none that made sense to her.

  
The sound of gravel crunching returned her to the present. She turned toward the drive, long brown hair whipping sharply in the cool February wind. The man making his way slowly over was vaguely familiar to her--young, maybe his early thirties--with a classic rock t-shirt. He smiled sadly at her.

  
“Hey, you Andrea, right?” The accent was just local enough to put her at ease. It had the strange bounces of an energetic barn dance, the dips and low sounds still energetic despite the quiet tone.

  
“Yeah,” She nodded. “Sorry, you seem familiar, but…”

  
“I wasn’t here too long before you moved out,” He flashed a sympathetic smile. “Sam Richard. I live just down the way,” He pointed to the house several doors over. “Saw your car here, and I thought I’d come see if you needed anything.”

  
“Thanks.” She nodded. “I just came to see the damage.”

  
“Not much left.” He mused, coming to join her. “It was a big fire. Got bigger then them trees.”

  
“Doesn’t make any sense…” Andrea scowled at the husk. “It shouldn’t have been able to get the out of control without someone seeing the smoke…”

  
Sam grimaced. “What they tell you happened?”

“Electrical.” She shook her head. “But that wiring wasn’t that old…And Dad kept the accelerants in the shed.”

“That’s what they told you huh…” Sam glanced about guiltily. “Look, I probably should keep my mouth shut, but I know if it was my daddy, I’d want to know,”

Andrea glanced sharply at him. “Know what?”

“Thing was, the wife was home. She says there was some kind of gunshots and a bunch of airplanes flying real low.”  
Instantly Andrea dismissed that information. This was the country, and this was the south. There was a private airport not but a few miles off, and shooting guns out here was as common as driving a car. That wife of his must be from up north--didn’t know much about the area.

“Now I know,” Sam put his hands up. “But she said heard it, looked outside and saw a plane light the place up.”

“Uh-huh…” Andrea looked back towards the house. “She tell the first responders that?”

  
“Yeah…” Sam sounded guilty. “They told her she was crazy.”

“You believe her?” She asked.

“I know it sounds crazy, but my wife’s honest to a fault. And your daddy was a bit crazy himself. We used to see him haul all kinds of junk over the yard, out there tapping away at dirt and coming and going at ungodly hours.”

“Occupational hazard.” Andrea responded automatically. It was the phrase her father had loved to tout whenever someone--usually her mother--complained about his odd habits.

Sam grunted. “Working for the government’ll get you dead quicker than anything else.”

Andrea frowned. Her mother used to say the same thing. “He hasn’t--wasn’t working for the government anymore. He retired out of that when I was in Highschool.” She gave him a sideways look. “Mostly he liked earthworms.”

“Strange thing to work on.” The man scowled. “You sure he didn’t piss off the police? You know they’re corrupt as hell around here.”

“Yeah.” She did know. All too well. “But he didn’t.”

“Well somebody had it out for him,” Sam pointed to the streetlights. “He had them all over the place.” Andrea squinted up, catching sight of the security camera mounted just under the light source. That was new.

“I see…” She looked back to Sam. “How many would you say he had?”

“Least ten of `em.” The neighbor shook his head. “Saw him take them out of the box and put `em out like they were Christmas lights.”

“I see.” She looked back to the house. “Guess they don’t work anymore.”

“Damn shame.” Sam sighed. “Might’ve proved who did it. Then again, cops being what they are, they probably would’ve destroyed the footage too.”

“Hmmm.” She hummed noncommittally.

“Well look, I’ve gotta get back.” Sam shuffled. “But I just wanted to see if you needed anything.” He glanced away awkwardly. “I’m sorry for your loss. He might’ve been a bit kooky, but he was a good guy.”

“Yeah…” She gave him the barest of nods.

“Nice talking to you,” He waved. “I’ll see you around.”

He was several paces away when Andrea let out the long sigh she’d been holding in, along with the quiet and bitter wish. “I hope not.”

It wasn’t fair of her, she knew. But she’d been in no mood for people the past week. Had she not seen the devastation, fire wrought on human flesh she might be tempted to light the next well wisher. It wasn’t their fault, she supposed. Societal expectations demanded to be fulfilled. People had to remind her of her loss, give her their platitudes and various anecdotes--some worthy, some not--and the “You look just like him” and other insulting reminders. She had looked like him. The same full eyebrows, just a bit too thick for convention, and comically expressive. Their eyes the same wide shape, hazel and Kaleidoscopal, the way they could twitch their noses at people, and their long nimble fingers.

The memory of his dying moments haunted Andrea. He was rasping, too dehydrated to sob from the pain. His eyes were all the wrong colors too. Dark and wild, not the calm calculating ones, or the wide eyed curious ones. His dark skin was gone, left with only patches of it along his knees and palms. He’d looked less like a human than a nightmare.

“Andrea,” He croaked. “Andrea you shouldn’t see me like this…”

“Daddy…” She’d fought back tears. “Your my dad. It doesn’t matter.”

It shouldn’t have. These were his final moments and she knew it. But it still haunted her.

“Baby,” He’d whimpered. “I’m sorry...I’m so sorry...They’ll be after you.”  
The doctor had warned her he wasn’t talking sense.

“It’s okay, Daddy,” She’d tried to reassure him. “I’ll be alright.” 

“You’ve got to get to the Prime…” He begged. “Promise me you’ll go straight to the Prime.”

“I promise,” She lied.

He seemed to relax some at that, the manic terror in his eyes falling into a cloud of listless pain. “I’m so sorry…”

“It’s okay, Daddy.” She repeated.

“I love you,” He rasped. “More than the stars or the sea…”

“Or the mountains, or the trees,” She continued the rhyme. “That’s how much I love thee.”

“Mountains…” Her father hissed. “Mt. Saint Helen.”

“Daddy?”

His eyes flicked back to her, tears forming. “The Prime.”

“I’ll find it.” 

“Andrea…” He hiccuped. She couldn’t tell if it was the expression on his face, or the lack of skin and eyebrows that made him seem so mournful.

Moments later she’d been ushered out so the doctors could work. She’d wanted to believe in miracles. She desperately wished with all her heart, on every star she saw painted in the gift shop windows, and the four leafed clovers being wheeled in for Saint Patrick’s day.

There was no miracle.

Now she found herself wandering the burned out hull, tapping the few whole items. The old organ her father had loved to plink on, and had taught her to play was a charred mess. Her father’s favorite chair, and her grandmothers, which they had refused to throw out after her passing were gone. The pictures of their life together gone. Her foot crunched on a pane of glass. 

She almost sobbed in relief as she stooped over to scoop up the crisp photograph. It was half burnt and reeked of smoke, but there was her father, years younger and looking up at the camera, a bundle in his arms. Andrea tucked it neatly into her wallet, thanking whatever god had given her this small piece.  
Andrea continued through the house, crunching over broken glass, and wondering if there was anything else worth salvaging. After fifteen minutes she moved out to the shed, unable to take the smell any longer. 

She took out her keys, thumbing through for the ratchet shaped one. Her father’s personal sense of humor shining through. Part of her was hoping to find some of his specimens. While she wasn’t much for science or worms, she wouldn’t mind releasing her father’s subjects back into the wild. Perhaps thanking them would help her let go. At least her father’s work wasn’t a total loss.

But as she opened the door and flicked on the lights she saw no signs of earthworms. None of her father’s equipment sat out. Andrea’s shoulders slumped. Not even the worms had been spared.

Something in the corner flickered. She looked up to see a mounted camera. It whirred softly. There was a series of clicks. Was the damned thing still active?  
“Great…”

“Voice recognition: Confirmed.” A mechanic voice chimed. “Welcome to the lab, Andrea.”

“Uh…” 

She nearly leapt out the door as the floor shifted. She was briefly reminded of a ride she’d taken with her parents. Her mother had screamed in horror, while Andrea and her father cackled in sheer delight at the slow descent.

Now as the floor crawled down, Andrea could see the lights coming on below. There was a concrete tunnel going through to another room. And at the end, waiting for her, was a bulky, human sized robot--one she realized she recognized.

“Sparky?”


	2. The Lab

“Sparky?”

Andrea had been fifteen when her father had produced the the scrap pile amalgamation. Her father had beamed at her, showing her how he’d repaired taken an old toaster oven for the chassis, putting servers and other bits in the chest cavity that had once been used to for cooking. of. There was an old Laptop fan that hummed noisily somewhere under the chest area, keeping the bulk cool. The clamps for hands had been amusing to her as a teenager, but now she found them a bit disturbing in the dim light. Aside from the larger and more obvious parts, the other bits of gear were harder to make sense. She’d just assumed after he stopped showing her the improvements that he’d given up on creating a junkyard robot.

The flat screen that served for a face pinged a small display of pixelated fireworks. Sparks. It was him.

“I...thought you were a failed experiment.”

The screen shifted, turning to a wide red “X” across the screen.

Andrea glanced past him warily. “The voice said Lab.”

A check mark in green. The robot moved turned towards the tunnel, his walk a slow, clunky hobble, an improvement over the near falling gait her father had shown her. There was a room at the end of the 20 yard stretch, well lit with the cool blue tone of LED lights, washing the cold concreted tunnel in dark shadows. She shivered, but followed.

Once to they reached the end, Sparky stepped to the side. His monitor displayed a bowing stick figure. 

“You want me to go first?”

A check mark.

“Right.” Andrea steeled herself, and pressed on. To moment she entered, she wished she hadn’t. Computers with servers the size of Sparky stood in one corner of the room. In the other was a workbench, with a coffee pot and three half full mugs of now molding coffee. The other half of the room was taken up by a thick glass enclosure. From where she stood, Andrea could see what looked like raised flowerbeds in neat rows. 

“Spraky, what is all this?”

The clunky mismatched thing moved to the workbench and dropped. His many parts rattled as he fell, causing Andrea to jump.

“Sparky?” She moved over to him. “Sparky, you okay?”

“Sparky’s function is limited.” The same mechanical voice from before chimed in. “He was simply meant to greet you, Andrea, and perform basic test procedures.”

“And you are?” Andrea swallowed.

“I am Synthia. I monitor of the lab for Dr. Wells.”

“He’s dead.” Andrea rocked back onto her heels. 

“Initiating emergency protocols.”

“Whoa!” Andrea whirled to the computers. “What protocol, Synthia?”

“I am storring all of Dr. Well’s Researching onto a drive. Initiating Protocol PRIME.”

“The prime?”

Sparky’s monitor lit up, her father’s face poorly rendered on it. Andrea drew nearer to it as the bot sat straight. Her father might look pixelated, but it was a far better version  
of him then the one she’d last seen. Here he had his tan skin, his bushy brows, and that vibrant life in his hazel eyes.

“Andrea…” His voice was solenm, but strong. “If you’re seeing this then I’m missing, or dead. And I’m...I’m sorry.”

The words brought her back there, to the butchershop nightmare on the hospitle table, unable to cry for all the pain he was in.

“But I need your help. My research cannot be allowed to rest here--it’s too dangerous, too important to leave. But you must not give it to the government. They’re seeking to exploit a group of refugees who need this research to survive. Without it, they will die. I need you to take it to their leader on Mt. Saint Helen. There’s a secret base there. Ask for the Prime, and give it to him--not anyone else. He’ll know what to do from there.”

Andrea pressed her fingers to Sparky’s screen, tears flowing. “There are other people who will want this information Andrea. You cannot give it to anyone but the Prime.” The image looked to the side. “Right, you don’t have long now. Once you take the disk, Sparky will take you back through the tunnel and provide you with my old gun--it’s been modified with special bullets--do not fire them unless you have no other choice, and you have the clear shot you need.” There was a pause as the image took in a long steadying breath. “There are only six shots in that pistol right now--not made for human targets. You’ll know what to use them on when you see them.”

“That’s not helpful,” Andrea hissed.

“Once you’re seen topside, Synthia will set the lab to self destruct--make sure you’re out.” The monitor continued. “The components in the lab are highly combustible--the sample beds especially.” In the fuzzy grain of the monitor she could see her father tap the glass enclosure. “A bit more explosive than Earthworms.”

Her father turned back to her. “Remember, Andrea...I love you more than the Stars or the sea. More than the Mountains or the Trees. That’s how much I love thee.” The smile was a heartbroken one. The look of a man who knew that he might fail--that his daughter might not hear his final words. “Stay safe.” and the screen faded to black.

It took Andrea several minutes to stop crying. She wiped at her eyes before rising. She turned to the enclosure. There was a lock, but her key made short work of it. Inspecting the the beds, she couldn’t see any signs of life, but then again, considering the different earth contents, marked on the clipboards on the side of the beds, whatever the samples were, they were likely beneath the soils.

“Will you be needing a sample?” Synthia asked.

“Yeah,” Andrea decided. She snagged a large jar from the workbench and returned to the enclosure. She reached into the soft earth, feeling for something. A plant or--her fingers brushed something cold and hard. Curious, she wriggled it free and held it up. It was a small crystal like stone, but it cast an eerie multi colored glow.

“Synthia...What is this?”

“Synthetic Energon.”

“Which is?”

“Classified.”

Andrea took her sample of energon and put it into the jar. So the worms were a ruse then. Which, she supposed was useful if her father had needed to take specific soils to grow this crystalline substance. Not that she really understood his work.

She turned to Sparky, taking a long deep breath. “Alright. I’m ready.”

It was perhaps her biggest lie.


	3. Remember the Alamo

Andrea looked over her shoulder sadly as she watched Sparky totter back into the shed. Part of her wanted to desperately save the little robot from its grim fate. The other part of her knew better. Her father had preprogrammed it all. This was in essence his will and testament. Sad as it was, Sparky’s place was in the lab, where the whole of her father’s work would soon go up in flames.

  
Just like he had. The irony wasn’t lost on her. She wished it was.

  
Instead she turned to her truck and slid in. Andrea needed to be long gone by the time the shed actually blew. She started the old truck, which gave a groan of protest. Poor old thing wasn’t likely to last out the year. Though, that wasn’t likely going to be an issue anymore.

Andrea drove camly onto the road, ignoring the tears that rolled down her face as the radio crooned a familiar melancholy song from the local Oldie’s station. She hummed past the lump in her throat as she picked up speed and merged onto the lonely highway. There was a loud boom, reminding Andrea of the cannons that reenactors liked to used for historical war plays. She’d gone with her grandmother and her father nearly every years as a child. How many times has she pretended to be taking revenge for the Alamo?

Now as she headed towards Washington, she felt a new twisting in her gut. Who was it that had gotten her father? Who were these refugees?

She pushed the questions back. There was only one thing to do from here. And it was to get to Washington and to this Prime.

Her eyes strayed to the passenger seat where the Rueger and the flash drive lay. Six shots. Bullets not meant for humans. The neighbor’s wife seemed to think that the fire had been intentional, and for all that Andrea could decipher, that was looking more and more likely.  
She shook it off again. No. Washington first. Speculation later.

But the thoughts twisted along her mind as she pulled up to her motel and slide out. Thankfully packing wouldn’t take her too long. Most of the important things had gone up in flames in the house, or were in her dorm miles away from here. The necessities though, couldn’t wait.

As she strode towards the motel however, something caught her eye. Her door stood ajar, lights off. Impossible. Andrea had locked it, left her lights on deliberately. It was an old habit her grandmother had instilled into her.

She debated for a moment on taking a look. It could’ve been an incredibly careless maid. It could’ve been a bad lock.

Andrea backed away. It wasn’t. She felt it in her bones. She wanted nothing more than to turn and flee, but she didn’t want to turn her back on that open door. Her fingers slid into her pocket, gliding over the lump of keys.

The door exploded open as something on four legs came streaking towards her. Andrea barely had time to step to the side, feeling a cold metallic ping as it clipped her shoulder, rolling her to the pavement. She hissed as her palms tore open, the stinging sensation distracting her from the throb in her shoulder.

The thing whirled on her, snarling low and hissing like a bad speaker. Andrea blinked at the thing. It was a sleek black panther, razor teeth visible as it stalked closer, it’s long whip like tail swishing in agitation. But it was unlike any panther she had ever seen. That sleek form was chromatic black, its glowing eyes reminding her more of the LED lights than the eerie glow of a cat eye. Even its teeth glinted silver, its heavy paws cracking the thin pavement in places.

Not human, no. But not what Andrea had expected. Mentally she berated herself for leaving the Rueger in the car, while she scuttled back in an awkward crab walk, skinned palms burning at the grit and pressure of her movement. The cat gave another crackling hiss, stalking towards her, readying for another pounce.

The sound of tires squealing brought the panther’s attention away from her. Andrea looked up too, seeing the dark SUV rolling up, headlights blinding her and illuminating her and the metal cat. It gave another snarl of Audio crackle, looking between its prey and the newcomers. A hail of bullets pinging off it’s hide made up its mind.

Andrea watched as the cat turned and leapt towards the vehicle, claws slicing through the first door as it if it were butter beneath a hot knife. Screams followed, seizing her with a new horror. She should help them. Those people were under attack because of her. She wobbled to her feet, clutching her keys helplessly as more gunfire barked in answer to the panther’s growls.

No. They were armed. And Andrea’s only hope was in the front seat of her truck. She turned, forcing her shaking legs to move as she hobbled towards the clunker. Behind her the screams of orders were growing frantic.

“Hendrix! Shit--”

“Agent down!”

“Agent Yates! Requesting backup! Decepticon confirmed! Decept--”

“Yates!”

Andrea trembled as she pulled the passenger door open. Whatever else, she needed her pistol now. Her hands shook as she struggled with the safety. It clicked bruising her thumb as she turned the weapon towards the fire fight happening just feet away.

She watched as men in suits and bulky vests darted to get away from the cat. Despite the bullets not seeming to harm it, it was faster than most of the shots aimed at it. At launched itself at a man with a walkie of some kind, claws raking at the vulnerable neck.

“Hey!” Andrea screamed, trembling as she raised the rueger. The red eyes care up, meeting her own hazel. “Remember the Alamo!”

She squeezed the trigger.

The night lit up in a haze of multicolored light as the streak of color slapped into the shoulder corner of the panther, knocking it back with a roar. It tripped, snarling and hissing as it wobbled.

Andrea had seen enough. She leapt into her truck, crawling into the drivers side gracelessly, and starting the truck. She didn’t bother to back up, instead jumping the pavement, thankful to whatever idiot decided a curb wasn’t needed. The passenger side door swung wildly as she put her foot down on the gas and drove for her life.


	4. A ping in the dark

Tap. Tap. Tapta tap tap.Blaster’s red metallic digits pinged noisily as he stared at the monitor, humming a beat he’d been picking up on the local stations. It was set to some popular love song lyrics something about a past relationship and mutual pining for the other person--very dramatic. But the track underneath is what really sparked his interest. Unfortunately, the Ark’s Second in Command had seen fit to force all ‘unnecessary’ communications to a halt until word from their civilian contact came in. While the Communication officer had to concede it was a practical move, he wasn’t entirely convinced it was the sole reason Prowl had placed the order. Loud music of any kind seemed to annoy him, and he seemed even more on edge than usual, if that were possible. Something big was up. Prowl might be paranoid, but he’d never been far off the mark as far as Balster’s memory banks could confirm.

  
A ping caught the communications officer mid rhythm, forcing him to halt his tapping. With a few swipes and clicks along the keyboard, he seamlessly anchored the signal. The source was heavily coded--at least by human standards. The primitiveness of it would’ve made the great Primus himself shudder. But that was part of Organic charm, Blaster supposed. They made what they had work. And in that way, he truly had to admire their ingenuity and their creativity.

  
He worked past the various walls and traps of the message, untangling the primary message within byte by byte. Tedious. But certainly smart. A human could have easily made a mistake in their decryption--Blaster, not so much. He finished decrypting the message, leaving a single video file. The coding indicated this was for Optimus, but there weren’t any additional orders. He debated for beat, before opening the file, recording as he did so.

  
It was rare for something to be encoded directly to Optimus, without extra orders stating who exactly was authorized to open it. Usually Prowl or Jazz got the bulk of those, occasionally Ratchet, or even Perceptor--but largely, the files meant for Prime had a list of other officers allowed to access them, however short that list might be. Any others were his responsibility. And if Blaster’s love of music was ever overbearing, most of the Autobots put up with it. The bot who read everyone’s mail wasn’t the mech to mess with. Not that Blaster had ever given them anything to worry about--but Jazz liked to tease the more annoyed soldiers when they protested. Usually Mirage.  
Blaster set that aside, watching the message. It was primitive video formatting,even by human standards. That left the image quality low and grainy--something that Blaster might be able to improve, but wasn’t high on his list of priorities. Until the audio picked up. The voice recognition was instant, and had Blaster scrambling up the various officers this needed to include. Optimus of course, along with his top commanding officers and advisors, along with Skyfire and Bumblebee who were running as diplomats of sorts here on earth.

  
The replies to his call were mostly simple acknowledgements, some more tentative than others (Bumblebee) but they were quick. Blaster tapped his digits again, recreating the beat he’d been tapping earlier.

  
The video played on, no major viruses running through, though it had a little self deletion code triggered to go off once the message had played through. He easily unwound the code with as much effort as it took him to tap through the track he’d been taken with. With that done, he saved the file, and readied himself to meet with the others. Prowl had been right to be so uptight about their civilian contact. Now to see what Prime would do about it.


End file.
